


Of Gangs, Ghouls, and Lonely Nights

by M_Monoceros



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, a bit of Archie/Reggie if you squint, attempted canon compliance, past Reggie/Jughead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-30 06:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12647595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Monoceros/pseuds/M_Monoceros
Summary: Or, how Reggie Mantle came to be Riverdale High's go-to source for the hottest new drug in town.





	Of Gangs, Ghouls, and Lonely Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for myself in some attempt to reconcile how Reggie Mantle went from lovable asshole jock to sleazy drug dealer in the span of a few weeks. I'm still not entirely on board with this new development, but writing this did help a bit. 
> 
> For context, Reggie's complicated feelings toward Jughead (and his own sexuality) come from my previous Reghead fic, [Like Blood From a Stone.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11137032/chapters/24850962) Go check it out if you'd like to read more Reggie angst! 
> 
> Also, when I first wrote this I based Malachai on [this audition tape,](https://vimeo.com/229596739) since he hadn't appeared in canon yet. I've since revised this fic slightly to better comply with Malachai's canon characterization. 
> 
> ANYWAYS, enjoy! :) Comments are my life blood, so please let me know what you think!

Reggie Mantle should have stayed at home.

Reggie Mantle, star football player, should have been resting up for Saturday football practise. Or maybe he should have been studying for his Chemistry test on Monday. Or, maybe, he should have just been sitting in his room playing video games.

Something innocuous. Something normal. Something that didn’t come with the risk of jail time. Or, you know,  _death._

At any rate, Reggie Mantle should definitely _not_ have been in the back room of Riverdale’s roughest dive bar surrounded by a group of murderous-looking bikers dressed in black leather and denim.

“You lost, Calvin Klein?” the guy at the door had sneered at him. So Reggie had puffed out his chest and sneered right back like he was in on the joke.

“I have an appointment,” he’d said, just like he’d been told to. “I’m here to see Malachai.”

So the guy had raised an eyebrow and waved him through. “In the back,” he’d said, and now here Reggie was.

He wiped his palms on his jeans and tried to avoid catching the eye of the guy standing next to him. The other guys were talking in low voices; like him, they were waiting.

Just when Reggie was working up the nerve to walk straight out the way he’d come, a door opened on the other side of the room. A woman poked her head out. She could have been a teenager, but with the amount of makeup she was wearing it was hard to tell. She stared around for a second before her eyes landed on Reggie. She pointed at him decisively.

“You next.”

Reggie followed her through the door, then down a set of stairs, which led to a different room. A _back_ back room, draped in lush wall hangings and cluttered with baroque furniture. It looked like a cross between a vampire's lair and an antique shop. There was a massive, ornately carved desk crammed into the corner, and behind it sat a boy about Reggie’s age. Well, _sat_ was a bit generous—he had draped himself across the chair in a way that was both absurd and powerful; in exactly the way that teachers always yelled at you for. He was also was wearing a fucking _robe_ for Christ's sake, made of some silky-looking fabric that was covered in a garish pattern and loosely belted so that it hung open at his chest. The woman pointed to a chair opposite the desk.

“Sit,” she said, so Reggie sat.

“Didn’t realize you were fucking Scarface,” Reggie said to the boy. He watched as the kid finished counting the stack of bills in his hand, then slipped them into a plastic baggie and pulled another stack towards him.

“I’m a lot of things,” Malachai said.

“Uh huh,” Reggie muttered. “I need—”

Malachai held up a hand, and Reggie froze. He waited as Malachai finished counting the second stack. He bagged that too, made a note on a pad of paper in front of him, then folded his arms and sat back in his chair. He gestured with one hand, signalling for Reggie to speak.

Reggie let out a long breath, trying to dissipate the bubble of indignation burning in his chest. “I sold all the stuff Vern gave me,” he said, a little pride creeping into his voice. Not like it had been hard—once word had got out that he knew where to find the good stuff, all Reggie had to do was walk down the halls and kids were practically throwing money at him like a cheap stripper.

Malachai looked Reggie up and down thoughtfully. “They like the product?”

Reggie snorted. “What is this, _Breaking Bad?_ Yeah Mr. White, they like your product.”

It _was_ kind of like _Breaking Bad_ though, Reggie thought, which was a bit out of left field seeing as lately Riverdale’s genre had been less HBO-drama and more cheesy-teen-murder-mystery. But hey, it wasn’t like he’d planned on becoming a drug dealer, or anything—it had just kind of… happened.

*

Reggie had met Malachai in September, one night when he was lonely and bored and Nancy Woods had blown him off for the third time. Chuck was out of town, Moose was probably holed up somewhere with Midge, and there was no hope of Jughead ever answering his texts again since he’d started dating Betty fucking Cooper (who, for the record, was way, _way_ out of his league).

So Reggie’d gone for a drive and ended up on the outskirts of town, parked outside a bar he’d only ever heard about in whispers and jokes. They didn’t card him, and before he could second guess himself he was inside throwing back a shot of something sickly sweet courtesy of the guy across the bar.

Most of the men there were older, and that was something new for Reggie—they looked at him with a kind of hunger that freaked him out as much as it turned him on, so he kept taking the drinks. Danced with whoever wanted him. And when someone had pushed something into his hand that looked like candy, he hadn’t thought twice before he unwrapped it and tipped it into his mouth.

Malachai had stood out because he was younger than the rest of them—Reggie's age—and because he was dressed like a fucking bdsm cyber punk from hell, bedazzled head to toe in gleaming metal studs, belts, and chains. He had dark hair and soft features, and in the flickering light of the club Reggie could almost pretend he was someone else.

“You like it?” he’d asked in Reggie’s ear as they’d danced; as whatever he’d the kid had given him raked over his brain and turned his blood to fire. And Reggie had just nodded because he couldn’t do anything else—his limbs didn’t belong to him anymore; his whole body felt airy and feverish, wound so tight with pleasure and need that any sudden movement might unravel him completely. And Malachai had kissed him, or he’d kissed Malachai, and Reggie could barely remember if they’d fucked right there or in the bathroom of the club. (He was pretty sure it was the bathroom though).

In fact, he didn’t really remember much about it at all. Just that whatever they did felt fucking amazing when they did it, but left him sore and stiff the next morning when he woke up in the passenger’s seat of his car.

Reggie hadn’t really done that kind of thing before. He didn’t go cruising or anything—he didn’t even know where you’d go for that kind of thing in Riverdale—and besides Malachai he’d only ever slept with one other guy. But really, he was pretty sure both Malachai and Fuckhead Jones were exceptions, not the rule.

Malachai left his number in Reggie’s phone. He’d thought about deleting it, but couldn’t quite bring himself to follow through. And it didn’t take long before the next lonely night.

*

Sometimes they met at the bar. Sometimes they met by the river. Once or twice Malachai took Reggie to a house that maybe belonged to him, or maybe belonged to his friends. Most of the time they fucked, but they always got high.

The only time Reggie ever paid Malachai for the stuff was the one time he asked for a little extra to take back to Chuck and the guys. (Reggie had let slip one night that he’d had experience with Jingle-Jangle and they’d practically _begged_ him to hook them up.)

“You go to Riverdale High, right?” Malachai asked slowly. They were sitting in the back of the bar where Malachai always hung out. Beside him, one of his friends (or cronies, or whatever) was counting out a handful of brightly-coloured sticks.

“So?”

“You got a lot of friends there?”

“Maybe. What d’you care?”

Malachai was looking him up and down. “You think they’d be interested in the JJ?” he asked. Reggie raised an eyebrow.

“I dunno—how many other teenagers you think want to feel like every cell in their body orgasm all at once?”

“Not just any teenagers,” Malachai explained with a twist of his lip, ignoring his sarcasm. “North Siders.”

Reggie snorted. “All they need is a source, dude.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Reggie said firmly, thinking of Moose and Chuck’s excitement when he’d told them he had a connection.

“Then you’ll do it?” Malachai asked.

Reggie felt his heart skip a beat. “Wait—what?”

_“‘All they need is a source,’”_ Malachai repeated. He raised a finger and pointed squarely at Reggie’s chest.

“Um,” Reggie said. “I just wanted a couple, you know? Just for me and—and some of my friends—”

Malachai smirked at him, and the other Ghoulie (Vern, Reggie thought his name was) held up one of the long, thin, brightly coloured tubes in his hands. “Eighty each,” he said, waving it under Reggie’s nose. "Your cut is twenty-five."

So Reggie had become a drug dealer. Part of it (okay, a lot of it) was about the money. Part of it, too, was probably just good old-fashioned teen rebellion. Another part of it was Malachai.

He was an enigma. Dark and dangerous and all those other cliche things that girls always creamed their pants over. Around his friends, Malachai seemed to occupy a position of leadership. He was quiet most of the time—watchful—but he emanated a dangerous, chaotic energy that was as unsettling as it was seductive. He had the same kind of tired, hungry gothic look as Jones, but unlike Jones Malachai didn’t have such a goddamn chip on his shoulder. He never stopped to mope around or feel sorry for himself—he just went ahead and did things, and people listened to him. Helped him. _Respected_ him.

Basically Reggie had a hard time sorting out whether he just wanted to fuck Malachai or whether he wanted to be him. Or be _like_ him _._ Mostly it was just that he was tired of being himself.

So maybe dealing drugs was his way of turning over a new leaf.

Maybe he should’ve feel guilty about it—Reggie Mantle was a lot of things, but he had never considered himself a druggie, or a crime lord, or whatever Malachai was. Malachai was more than those things, though: Malachai was a Ghoulie.

“The fuck is a Ghoulie?” Reggie had asked him once, the first time he’d seen the kid wearing that godawful denim jacket. The logo was plastered across the back of it—some kind of skull design with the word scrawled messily underneath. Malachai didn’t seem fazed by Reggie’s tone.

“My family,” he said.

“All right Casper,” Reggie snorted. The dig earned him a blank stare. The exact same kind of stare, in fact, that Malachai was currently fixing him with over the messy desk in the back back room of the shitty bar on the outskirts of town.

*

Reggie shifted nervously in his seat. Malachai had weirdly intense eyes—a little too wide, with just a bit too much time in between each blink. Maybe it was all the drugs.

He also didn’t have the greatest sense of humour—he took things literally, and when he made jokes they always went just a little too far. He was brooding, but not in the lame emo way _. Like an off-brand Jughead,_ Reggie’s brain supplied, and the thought made irritation flare in his chest. _No,_ he thought furiously back at himself, because there was absolutely nothing on-brand about Jughead fucking Jones.

“You think you can move more than that?” Malachai asked him.

“Definitely,” Reggie said. “It’s insane, bro. I mean, everyone wants a piece.”

“Cool,” Malachai said. “Very cool. Need anymore of the other stuff?”

“Nah,” Reggie said, thinking of the store of miscellaneous party drugs he still had stockpiled under his bed. “But, uh, you got any uppers? Ritalin or some shit? Friend of mine wants something that’ll keep him... _alert_.”

Malachai didn’t even question him—just reached into the drawer of the desk, rummaged around for a few second, then pulled out a bottle of pills and tossed them across the desk.

“Three dollars a pill. Fifty for the bottle,” he said.

“Right on.”

Malachai signalled to the woman in the corner and she threw him a nondescript black backpack. He walked over to where Reggie sat and dropped the bag in his lap.

Reggie stood, weighing it in one hand. It was heavy—much heavier than the last one Malachai had given him.

“Two weeks,” Malachai said. "You have any problems, I don't want to hear about them. Talk to Vern if you need more." 

“Done,” Reggie said. Malachai made to turn away then, but Reggie put a hand on his arm.

“Hey, uh…” He cleared his throat, his eyes darting quickly to the woman in the corner and back. “Do you want to… hang out sometime?” he finished lamely.

“I’m a little busy this month,” Malachai said slowly, smiling in a way that was maybe supposed to be sympathetic, but came out just a little too exaggerated to be genuine. “Business is booming. You know how it is.”

Reggie struggled not to let the disappointment show on his face. “Totally,” he said.

“Oh yeah, I forgot to ask,” Malachai said when Reggie turned to leave. Reggie whipped back around a little too quickly.

“Yeah?”

“You know a Jughead Jones?”

Reggie’s stomach writhed unpleasantly. “A what?”

“Jones. Jughead. Used to go to Riverdale High. You know him?”

Reggie frowned. “A little. Whiny emo kid who thinks he’s god’s gift to True Crime. Wannabe psycho. Thinks he’s edgy cause he drinks black coffee.”

Malachai contemplated this. “I'm told the Serpents think he’ll make a good leader,” he said, and Reggie laughed loudly.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Dude—if your competition thinks electing that mopey twink as their Worm in Chief is a good idea then you got _nothing_ to worry about.”

This seemed to be the right thing to say—Malachai looked pleased, and he flashed Reggie wide grin that sent a jolt of warmth to his stomach.

*

The backpack was empty in eight days. On the ninth day, Moose and Midge were attacked at Lovers’ Lane.

In the hospital, Reggie cracked jokes, trying to loosen the knot of guilt in his chest. But Moose didn’t blame him, and neither did Midge. When Sheriff Keller stopped by and asked them where they’d gotten the drugs, Moose made up some lame story about going to a Southside bar to find a hookup.

“Thanks man,” Reggie said sheepishly after Keller left.

Moose smiled at him, but still looked vaguely troubled. “Just… be careful, Reg,” he said. “Shit’s getting way too crazy. I don’t know what kind of stuff you’re into, or where you got the Jingle-Jangle, but…”

“I know,” Reggie said with a grimace. “Believe me, dude. I know.”

*

That night he went back to the Ghoulie bar. Didn’t even bother knocking on the door of the back back room before he stormed in and threw the empty backpack into Malachai’s lap along with all the cash he’d made.

“I’m out,” Reggie said. Malachai stared at him.

“Okay.”

“My friend was shot, all right? Almost died. And i don’t know whether it was the Serpents or a Ghoulie or some random wingnut with a… wait, what?”

Malachai was counting the cash.

“I said _okay._ If you want out, fine. I already have another runner lined up to take over your territory. Real keener, too.”

“You do?”

Malachai spread his hands wide. “You said it yourself—there’s a big market for the JJ on the North Side. You don’t wanna be part of that? Your loss. Plenty of others that do.”

Reggie stared down at him furiously.

“You got something else to say?” Malachai asked him.

Reggie wanted to yell at him. Ream him out—tell him to stay out of the North Side, to leave him and his friends out of whatever fucked up drug empire pyramid scheme he was playing at, but he didn’t. He just turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

“I don’t think I have to remind you what’ll happen if you snitch,” Malachai called after him.

*

Reggie spent the night driving around aimlessly, half caught between fury at Malachai and his drug-dealing ghost pals, worry for Moose, and a deep, shameful anger at himself for ever being so stupid.

There was a little bit of hurt there, too—he’d never been under any illusions about the kind of relationship he and Malachai had (which was none at all), but the rejection still stung.

It always did.

*

He didn’t have time to mope about it for long, though, because the next day Archie stood up in front of the team and gave his first speech. And, listening to him talk about unity and taking a stand, something clicked over in Reggie's brain. 

The Red Circle. Riverdale’s protectors.

It felt good to be a part of something like that—something that would keep Riverdale safe instead of putting it in danger.

And Reggie liked this new Archie; determined, wild. Just a little too close to the edge of insanity, but still as steadfast and loyal as he’d always been. Reggie had never really _got_ what it was about Archie that everyone seemed to love so much, but now he understood it a bit better: as crazy and unhinged as the kid was now, there was something about his righteous anger that felt _true._ Honest. And Reggie didn’t have to think twice about following a guy like that into battle.

And while the rush of speeding down Riverdale’s streets with Archie in the passenger’s seat and a a couple makeshift weapons at the ready wasn’t quite as good as Jingle-Jangle, damned if it wasn’t close.

 


End file.
